


Not Crying (But I Wish I Was)

by Felki



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Angst, Depression, Depressive Episode, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hope's Peak Academy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Beta Read, Ouma not Oma, Self-Harm, Trans Male Character, Trans Saihara Shuichi, Wrote this in the middle of the night, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27991662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felki/pseuds/Felki
Summary: There wasn't even a good, or real reason for him to be feeling this way.______________________Sometimes, you just feel bad for no reason. Shuichi struggles.(Trigger Warning: Depressive? Episode, Self-harm)
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Ouma Kokichi/Saihara Shuuichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 130





	Not Crying (But I Wish I Was)

**Author's Note:**

> (Trigger Warning: Depressive? Episode, Self-harm)

There wasn't even a good, or real reason for him to be feeling this way. 

It was a good day. It had been a good day, there was no denying that. 

Class had been fun. His anxiety hadn't flared up when answering the teacher's questions - a small success, but a success nonetheless. 

At lunch, and even after school, he had spent time with his friends. Enjoyed it. Had laughed. Had smiled. Had been okay. 

They had gone to a bookstore. He had gotten a new mystery novel, because he wanted something fun to read. Akamatsu had helped him pick the book out, while Kokichi and Momota had been having a contest to see who could get them kicked out of the bookstore fastest as Harukawa watched with a disappointed expression. 

Today had been a good day. It had been such a good day. 

He glanced at the clock.

"Today" was technically yesterday. It was 1:30 am. 

And here he was, lying in bed, phone raised up as if he was still looking at the incognito tab where he had searched for crisis hotlines, just in case, _just in case-_

His phone was off now. But he hadn't moved. 

His eyes weren't wet, but they were heavy, pounding in that way that they do when you know that you want to cry, but your body's somehow trained itself not to, so you can't release your emotions, can't let it all out so that you can feel relief afterwards. 

His chest was heavy. It was always heavy, and it didn't particularly feel more heavy now than it did usually - but it was more noticable. It was heavy, to the point where he wanted to let go of his phone, and bring his nails and scratch over his chest (between his unwanted breasts, underneath the sports bra) - if only to distract his mind from the heaviness. 

His arms... his forearms... they weren't itchy - they never were - but they were... _smooth_. Smooth, because the scars and scratches he left on them were always faint, were always unnoticable unless you were truly looking for them. It was too smooth. Too smooth. 

He didn't know how to explain the feeling. But it was there. That slight pressure. 

He was breathing more slowly, now, too - a conscious effort to try and... not calm himself, since he was already calm, already felt calm...ish, but to steady his mind, to try and let his thoughts enter a better place. 

It wasn't really working, though. Maybe because he was only breathing through his nose? He had read somewhere, that you were supposed to breath in through the mouth, and out through the nose - or was it vise versa? 

He couldn't remember. And opening his mouth seemed like too much effort. 

He moved his fingers - planning to turn his phone back on, for what purpose, he didn't know, until an uncut nail scratched another one of his fingers. He froze. 

It had been an accident. Truly, he hadn't meant for the small shock of pain in his fingers, but... 

It had felt good. 

He felt the pressure on his forearms greaten, ever so slightly, and his eyes felt chilly, cold in a weird way. 

It was getting harder to breathe. He still was breathing, but - there were intermittent pauses, where he wouldn't move. Wouldn't inhale. Only to suddenly suck in air through his nose, and quickly exhale. 

There was an itch on his side, from where his shirt had risen and his bare skin had been touching the blanket. His movements were unconscious as he brought his hand to scratch - 

And he only realized what he had done until it was too late. 

The scratching had felt good. It had felt good, and now he was scratching other places, like right below his ear, yet above his neck, where his hair was tickling him. On his shoulders, where it suddenly felt like he was being pricked by needles. The side of his head, where it felt like there were little creatures crawling through his hair. 

Anywhere and everywhere, but his forearms. Because scratching at his forearms would mean that he lost - despite knowing deep in his mind that he had already given in, had already squandered any attempts at victory - yet he clung to that net of safety, that it wasn't self-harm unless he was truly cutting himself open, that he wasn't hurting himself, only scratching at itches on other parts of his body, because his forearms weren't itchy, they were never itchy, they were just heavy, like the air was pushing on them too much, much too smooth and - 

He wanted to cry. 

He couldn't though, because as chilled and as cold and as heavy his eyes felt, they wouldn't wet, they wouldn't overflow, wouldn't let him release the emotions in a healthy way like he _knew_ he needed to - 

He was so frustrated. 

He scratched his collarbone. Ignoring his forearms. 

He was so tired. 

He took a deep breath in through his nose. Ignoring his forearms. 

He was so mad at himself, for feeling this way, despite there being literally nothing, nothing at all to truly set him off. 

He adjusted his position, trying to accommodate for the new itch on his back. Ignoring his forearms.

He wanted to scream. But he didn't want to bother anyone, so early in the morning. He didn't want to open his mouth. 

A new itch appeared on his eyelids - he scratched. Ignoring his forearms, his forearms that weren't itchy, but so, so, heavy - 

He should call someone. Text someone. Let someone, anyone, know what was going on, what he was doing, but he didn't want anyone to know, didn't want to feel the shame pooling in his gut as they looked at him with sad, sad eyes. 

His face was itchy. 

His shoulders were itchy. 

His torso was itchy.

His legs were itchy. 

His feet were itchy. 

Everything, everything but his _goddamn forearms_ \- was itchy. 

He wasn't cold, he didn't feel cold, he wasn't even shivering, but suddenly the air around him felt stiff, felt chilly, and every time he moved it was like he was forcing his way through some sort of subtance. 

He needed it to stop. 

He needed to feel something, something other than this itch. 

He needed a distraction. 

He needed -

He needed -

He needed to _lose_. 

It was this thought that truly got him to move, this thought that caused him to roll out of bed and onto his feet - phone still clutched in one of his hands - and make his way into the bathroom. 

Most people used a razor, or some other tool. 

But he didn't own a razor - he had never gotten around to buying one. Had never needed one, not for its intended purpose. And he knew exactly what he would end up doing with it should he end up buying one - so he never had. 

He flicked the light switch, not bothering to close the door behind him. There wasn't really a reason to. He was the only one here, after all. 

The light hurt his eyes - he flinched, but didn't turn them off, nor did he lower his eyelids. That was part of what he believed he needed. 

Ha. He should probably see a therapist. If only he wasn't too afraid to ask his uncle (or his parents, _definitely_ not his parents) to help him in that endeavor. 

He already had nails. What more did he really need? 

Any marks, or bloody cuts he'd leave with his fingernails would be much less noticable than anything he could've done with a razor, (or any other kind of tool) anyway. 

He was seated on the toilet, the lid closed. His phone had been placed on the countertop, far enough away from the sink that he wouldn't have to worry about it falling in. 

He blinked, staring at his reflection in the mirror for a moment. 

And then he started. 

It felt good. It stung, it stung badly, but that was the point. It was supposed to hurt, supposed to provide a distraction from the itches, the heavy feelings in chest, his lack of tears - it was grounding, grounding in ways that he couldn't describe, grounding in ways that he knew were unhealthy, knew were bad, but- 

But it worked. It worked, and that was the only reason he needed not to stop. 

He had to, though, eventually, when the bathroom smelled too much of blood, when he had scratched and torn at his forearms to the point where anything more would be _seriously_ bad (as if it wasn't already bad enough), when he was tired, just so, so, tired, to the point where he just wanted to collapse onto the cold, cold tile of the floor and let himself freeze. 

But he didn't move. He was already frozen up here, seated on the toilet. Unsure of what to do. Not knowing what he wanted to do, if he wanted to do anything at all. 

_Call me at any time you need me, okay?_ He heard Kokichi say in his head. _A supreme leader always has time for his loyal subordinates!! Nishishi~!!_

He flinched at the words suddenly playing his mind, bringing his head in his hands despite the fact that he _still_ wasn't crying, still couldn't - 

_Seriously, though. Call me, okay? I don't care what time it is, or how minor you think whatever issue you're having might be - call me. I want to be there for you, okay? I_ want _to help you._

At this, he let out a sob - he wasn't crying, he wished he was, since honestly he'd be able to release so many emotions that way - but he wasn't, despite his face contorting in the way it would were he crying, and his throat letting out noises that he didn't want to hear. 

Why couldn't he have just remembered Kokichi's words earlier? Why couldn't he have just - 

He reached forward, grabbing his phone off of the countertop. He tried to ignore his bloodied fingernails as he unlocked his phone, and opened LINE, before clicking the chat with the icon of a crown. He would call, but... 

He didn't really feel like speaking right now. 

**Hey**.  
Read 2:43am 

**Why, good morning, beloved!! (≧▽≦)**  
**What has you texting so early in the evening?**  
2:43am

**Did I wake you?**  
Read 2:44am 

**Yes!!! ٩(๑`^´๑)۶**  
**I was getting such good sleep before, this, y'know!!**  
**...**  
**Of course, that was a lie!!**  
**Insomnia and all that jazz, y'know? (ㆁωㆁ*)**  
**What's up?**  
2:46am 

**Beloved?**  
2:48am 

**Hey, Shuichi??**  
**Do you need me to come over?**  
2:50am 

**Please**.   
Read 2:51am 

He didn't know how long it was since he had sent his last text - but he heard the knocking on his dorm room door. He needed to get up and answer it, because it was Kokichi, because Kokichi was here _just for him_ , but... 

he couldn't move. 

Luckily, it didn't seem like he needed to, as he heard the _click_ of the door unlocking anyway - that's right, his boyfriend was a master lock-picker - and the footsteps of the other boy as he made his way to the open door of the bathroom. 

"Oh, Shuichi," he heard the lavenderette murmur. Shuichi blinked, not raising his eyes from the floor, but saw the supreme leader in his peripheral vision. He was dressed in a pair of purple sweatpants and a white t-shirt, with his hair lazily tied back using his trademark bandanna.

Kokichi stepped forward until he was standing in front of the detective. He brought his hands forward and placed them on Shuichi's cheeks - Shuichi might have flinched at the action instinctively had he had more energy. 

"Hey," Kokichi called to him. "Can you look at me, beloved?" 

It was a struggle - an internal tug of war, really - but eventually, Shuichi managed to raise his eyes, finding himself staring into deep purple.

"Good job," Kokichi murmured. "Can you talk to me, sweetheart? It doesn't have to be much." His eyes, were kind, and warm, and Shuichi felt guilty, so so guilty when he shook his head in response. 

"Okay," Kokichi said, letting out a soft hum. He lowered one of his hands from Shuichi's cheek, and instead grabbing one of the blunette's hands and bringing it to his chest. "Can you feel that?" he asked the other.

Shuichi nodded, assuming that he meant his heartbeat. 

"Good," Kokichi's thumb softly carressed Shuichi's cheek, as if wiping away tears that weren't there. "Can you try and match the pace of your breathing to it, beloved?" he asked. Ah. He must have noticed how Shuichi's breathing up until this point had been rather sporadic. 

Shuichi nodded again, and attempted what he had been told to. 

"That's it," Kokichi encouraged. "In through your nose, and out your mouth, okay? You're doing good." 

Shuichi didn't know what to say in response, so he just nodded again. 

"Can you talk to me now, Shuichi?" Kokichi asked. "Say anything at all?" 

The two of them were silent for a moment, the only sound that of Shuichi's heavier breathing, until a soft "Yeah," was forced out of Shuichi's throat. 

"Good job," Kokichi murmured, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on the detective's forehead. "I'm gonna let go now, okay? Get the things I need to clean you up. You have to keep breathing, alright? And know that I'm not leaving you, got it?" 

Shuichi nodded. When it seemed like the other wanted (though wasn't requiring) a verbal response, he whispered, "Got it." 

Kokichi let out a soft hum, before letting go of Shuichi in order to grab the first aid kit, and wet a towel underneath the faucet. He dabbed said towel on Shuichi's arms, carefully wiping away the blood in a way that caused no additional pain. He grabbed a cottonball from the first aid kit, and after pouring some rubbing alcohol on it, he carefully used it to dab at the cuts and marks. "Sorry, beloved," he said when Shuichi hissed at the sensation. He was quick to finish, and quick to grab the bandages and wrap them around the taller boy's arms. 

Once he was finished, he looked at his handiwork for a moment, before opening the cupboard underneath the sink to grab the nailclippers. "I'm gonna cut your nails, okay Shuichi?" 

"Okay." 

Normally, Shuichi might have paid more attention to his boyfriend's actions, but his head was starting to hurt, in a way that before he knew it, Kokichi was already putting everything away. 

"Let's go to bed now, Shuichi," the supreme leader said, grabbing the boy's hands and tugging him off of the toilet. He flipped the lights off as they exited the bathroom, Shuichi obediently following behind as they made their way towards the bed. 

Shuichi let Kokichi lay him down and tuck him under the covers, before climbing in himself, acting as the big spoon as he wrapped his arms around Shuichi's waist and placed his forehead between the detective's shoulder blades. 

"Y'wanna talk about it?" Kokichi asked, his voice soft. 

Shuichi was silent for a minute, trying to formulate a response. He still felt bad, but the itches from earlier were gone. He felt safer, and warmer underneath the blanket now that Kokichi was here, and feeling Kokichi's touch helped to ground him. 

"There wasn't really a reason," he finally responded. "Sorry." 

"Don't apologize," Kokichi pushed his forehead a little harder onto Shuichi's back, using the extra pressure to really drive in his message. "I told you to call me, didn't I?" He paused. "Next time, call me earlier, okay?" 

It took a moment for Shuichi to respond. 

"Okay." Shuichi sucked in a breath. "Thank you." 

"Always, beloved." 

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in like 3 hours in the middle of the night 😅
> 
> Was nice to get this off my chest, though. I might write more of these in the future. 
> 
> Sorry if anything I portrayed was innaccurate. The majority of this written based off of my own feelings/experiences. (More like just the first half, before he goes into the bathroom, but still.) 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Instagram (I draw Danganronpa Art, if you're interested):  
> @felkithecreator


End file.
